Jack pulls the phone from his pocket, along with the charger, plugging it into the dash outlet. He drapes the jacket over his head for two reasons. One, to keep from exciting the zombie on the roof or any other zombie for that matter. Two, the memories on the device are his and his alone. He isn’t about to share them with anybody, living or dead.
As the fourth video begins, Jack feels the sense of impending doom creeping in on him like a dark suffocating blanket. It isn’t a voice, hunch or a simple feeling. It is a true sense of his mortality and the fact his mortality is going to end badly. Jack glides his thumb over the pause symbol at the bottom of the small screen, stopping the video of his son swinging on an old playground set for the first time without help. “Look how high I can go daddy.” Ronan sits frozen in time on the small device.
Jack stares down at the screen, remembering how good it felt to hug his son and tell him he loved him. He can still feel his son’s little body, remembering all the times he picked him up to envelope him in a giant bear hug, nibbling his neck, listening to him squeal with laughter. It’s the laughter that haunts his thoughts most of all. Yet, Ronan’s ghost never comes, never sits with him or speaks to him. Only Julia visits.
“Time to go, darling.” The voice is soft, almost lost under the patter of falling rain, yet it’s present, carried on unknown airwaves. Jack slides his jacket down from over his head, jerking back at the vision before him. He wipes tears from his eyes, staring out the windshield. Out of the woodwork they came, literally. Jack has no idea where else they could have come from. He counts nine near the front of the disabled Suburban and sees more off in the distance, shambling in his general direction. “How the fuck do you guys know I’m here?” Jack says aloud, hoping Julia will answer. After a second, he lifts his right arm and sniffs. “Ugh, that could be why.”
Once again Jack finds himself faced with the same life and death scenario he has come to know all too well. This time, however, he could’ve avoided it if he had listened to Julia. Now, instead of one or two zombies, he is faced with at least ten, and they have reinforcements on the way. He knows he has one runner to deal with, but the others haven’t shown their cards. Jack methodically pulls his jacket back on, slides the iPhone and chargers into the left inside pocket and begins checking his weapons. He pulls back the slide of the .45, knowing it has a round chambered, but repetition and checklists have kept him one step ahead of the dead. Sitting in the seat next to him rests the small duffle bag containing sixty more rounds for the .45, a small .22 semi-auto handgun with a fully loaded clip and 200 rounds of ammo, two .357 revolvers loaded and 40 extra rounds of ammo, 12 of which are nestled in speed loaders, and last but not least, Jerome’s Big Fucking Gun; the name is branded into the wood stock of the double barreled 12 gauge shotgun with barrel lengths measuring far below the legal standard.
Jack reaches into the bag, retrieving Jerome’s shotgun. He fastens a makeshift sling out of a hooded sweatshirt drawstring. He places one of the .357’s in the outer right pocket of his jacket and slides a speed loader in the inside pocket. He slips the Bowie knife back into the sheath strapped to his left leg. He zips the bag up partially, allowing enough room for his hand to dart inside if needed, yet not enough room to allow the contents to spill out on the ground as he runs, which he is sure he will be doing a lot of in the next few minutes.
From the floorboard Jack retrieves a simple dark green backpack. It has a padded compartment for a laptop computer that now holds several cans of chili; Denison’s, to be exact. One can was vegetarian chili. Beggars can’t be choosers, Jack thought, grabbing the can from the Grocery store shelf shortly after the event began. The remaining compartments of the pack contain essentials, including four bottles of water, his journal, and several pens and pencils, along with a small sharpener. Two pairs of clean socks, one remaining pair of boxers, toothpaste, travel toothbrush, generic Ibuprofen, a first-aid kit, fingernail clippers, spare pair of sunglasses along with a case, a Swiss Army knife, a small crowbar, several books of matches in a zip lock bag, and finally, one 6oz stainless steel flask containing Ardbeg Ten Single Malt Scotch. It’s not the most expensive nor is it the most refined Scotch, but it’s full of life, and the taste can bring back the most wonderful memories in just one sip. The flask, a gift from his father-n-law, has a simple inscription on the back reading, Welcome to the family.
Once done reviewing the contents of the backpack, Jack places it in the passenger seat along with the duffle bag. He turns his attention back to the walking abominations outside the vehicle, scanning the area for the best escape route. As his eyes dart back and forth, he realizes the used car lot is out. His options are thin. The walking dead mill about, moving closer and closer to his location. They don’t walk directly to the disabled Suburban, but rather they appear to be circling Jack’s location, like sharks that have come across a wounded fish. Jack looks up at the ceiling of the Suburban, cursing the dead hitchhiker. He, she, or whatever the fuck it is, will have to be the first to go. Jack grabs both the duffle bag and the backpack, slides over both sets of seats, positioning himself at the rear doors of the Suburban. The Suburban is equipped with the split vertical double doors instead of the hatch back style. Jack is grateful for this minor fact. He slips the backpack on and shoves the duffle bag to one side. He peers out the rear window grasping the door handle.
In Jack’s prior life, before the event, he was a self-proclaimed poet and writer. In reality he made his living as a substitute history teacher working in the local unified school district. He had recently found a semi permanent gig at a small middle school on the south end of Redding. During the good times he spent most of his spare time playing with Ronan, laughing with Julia and writing poetry. A self-published book garnered him a very small group of fans in the Redding area and no real money to speak of. He never gained further attention from his writing, completely stopping after the accident. Still there was one poem he had written that ran through his head whenever the pressure of the world became too much to bear. “In my life…”
The path to the used car lot is completely choked with the dead and he has no idea how many runners are in the crowd. Out the rear of the Suburban he can see an open path to a neighborhood sitting maybe 300 yards away. Large spray painted numbers adorn the walls of the homes and garages, indicating the military has come through here, killing the dead and living alike. Jack shivers a bit at the thought, knowing he’d been lucky, if you could call it that, surviving his encounter with the military. He studies the neighborhood, thinking he can find refuge amongst the cleared homes, but he needs to dispatch the pesky runner on his roof. “In my life I will…”
Jack throws one door open, hopping from the Suburban. He spins around waving his hands at the dead figure standing on the roof. He is careful not to make any further noise. The zombie, dressed in running clothes down to the very short shorts and lightweight running shoes, stands staring at Jack with foggy grey eyes. At this point, the irony of the situation fails to amuse him. He waves his hands once more, one of which firmly holds the long Bowie knife. The zombie drops down with its palms on the roof of the vehicle and springs towards Jack. He doesn’t expect the quick movement and falls backwards to the pavement. He rolls to one side as the zombie hits the ground a few feet from him. Jack gets to his knees quickly bracing for attack. He holds the knife firmly in one hand while reaching for the .357 in his right pocket. The zombie scrambles to its feet, turning to face Jack. Its palms are again flat on the surface, as it arches its back like a feral cat.
Jack can now plainly see the zombie had been a young athletic woman before death. She springs and Jack thrusts the knife upward with great agility and accuracy. The blade drives straight through her bottom jaw directly into the brain case. She ceases being once again as her body slumps to the ground. Jack pulls the blade from her lower jaw with a sickening slurp. He wipes the blade on the girl’s dirty Shasta College sweatshirt and slips it back into the sheath. He looks around surprised to see he hasn�
�t drawn further attention. He retrieves the duffle bag from the rear of the Suburban and makes his way towards the awaiting neighborhood. He holds his .45 in one hand and the crowbar in the other.
Jack reaches the side of the highway and cuts through a small landscaped median leading to a parallel side street. He stops briefly at the edge of the street, looking back over his shoulder. Three runners are coming. Jack sighs, turns back to the neighborhood, seeing the closest house is still two hundred yards away. He is loaded down with supplies, not to mention he’s a slow runner. Well ain’t this a bitch. He drops the duffel bag to the ground and slips off the backpack. He raises Jerome’s Big Fucking Gun. “That’s right, run together,” Jack says aloud as the runners grow closer. The lead runner Jack can tell at one time was a thin middle-aged man who must have had a passion for the Oakland Raiders, based on the dirty black sweatshirt and ball cap that has miraculously remained on his head. The second runner, keeping stride, is a heavier black male adult wearing no clothes. His swollen member spits bloody ooze with every stride. The third zombie is several yards behind the first two. Jack can’t make out the sex or even the size because it’s partially blocked by the first two.
Jack steadies, bracing his right foot slightly behind his frame, and raises the shotgun to chest level. He takes a deep breath, staring down the approaching dead. The zombies reach the landscaped median, continuing the charge. Jack makes the final move with the shotgun, butting the weapon against his right shoulder. He pulls both triggers. The blast is deafening, the kick is worse. The runners are met with a spreading wall of buckshot. The Raider disintegrates from the waste up. Naked Black Man loses most of the right side of his body and spins violently from the impact, but his mass helps propel him forward. He lands a few feet from Jack failing to move any further as his brain case empties onto the street. The rotting brain matter nearly matches the color of the street. The smell is horrendous.
It’s the first time Jack has fired a round from Jerome’s gun, let alone both rounds at the same time. He lets the shotgun drop, knowing the makeshift sling will grab. His shoulder throbs but adrenalin is helping to mask the pain. He snatches the .45 from his waistband, aiming it directly at the third runner. The child’s dead grey eyes cut through him and he wavers. The boy can’t be much older than seven or eight His blonde hair flicks up and down as he runs. Jack’s eyes grow tired and his shoulders slump. This was bound to happen. He knew he’d eventually have to shoot a child even though this wasn’t really a child anymore. The boy ceased being an innocent child when the world died. It is the fact this child eerily reminds him of his own son. “Look how high I can go, Daddy”.
The head of the child evaporates into a cloud of blackish mist and rotting bone. The limp body of the boy slides to Jack’s feet. He looks down at the headless body, feeling as though he should cry, but the tears don’t come. This isn’t his boy. His boy died well before the event. His boy is in Heaven where he belongs.
Jack reaches down picking up the backpack. His right shoulder is aching so he makes a mental note to never fire both barrels of Jerome’s gun at the same time again. He retrieves two fresh shotgun shells from the duffle bag, and slings the bag over his shoulder. Small contingents of zombies are now walking in his direction. He’s surprised more haven’t come out to play. Between the shotgun blast and the sharp report from the .45, he should’ve awakened the dead. In reality, he’s succeeded in drawing the attention of every zombie for two miles; he just doesn’t know it yet.
Jack hastens his pace, reaching the first row of homes. He stops briefly to catch his breath, looking over the large letters and numbers painted on the side of the first house. 3Z x, three zombies killed. Jack knows the bodies were likely left in the home or at the very least the spoiling blood of the walking abominations was left. The military, on its first pass through the north state, had proven to be untidy. Jack walks deeper into the neighborhood, a maneuver that fights against his instincts but he needs a place to sit and think of more suitable alternatives. He doesn’t know the road network, doesn’t have a current map, and doesn’t know if he is walking towards a series of cul-de-sacs and dead ends. To make matters worse, he doesn’t know if he’s walking straight towards more zombies, but he does know he has several trailing him.
The neighborhood is bland, lifeless and every house looks similar in size, style and color. Even the front yards are overgrown in similar fashions. A few vehicles line the street. Jack makes another mental note of the raised Chevy 4x4 sitting in the driveway of the second house he passes. A large 4 is painted on the front of the garage. There is no Z so Jack surmises the military executed 4 survivors. “Oh what fresh Hell is this?” Jack speaks aloud.
This kind of cookie-cutter neighborhood Jack loathes. A developer buys up a couple hundred acres, builds three hundred homes using four different floor plans, and creates a little slice of heaven. But it isn’t heaven to Jack. There is no originality, no character and no warmth, yet on this day he is seeking the finest floor plan he can find. As much as Jack hates this neighborhood he can’t help but smile when he spots the two-story charmer with fully intact windows and doors and the big “0” painted on the garage door. He makes his way up the short driveway, turns right at the walkway and ducks under low hanging wisteria vines. He approaches the front door cautiously, .45 held at the ready. He grips the firearm with both hands, wincing with every step as the duffle bag sways back and forth. He wants to drop the bag but doesn’t dare. He needs to get inside quickly and quietly.
Jack stops short of the front door, studying his surroundings. The front door is closed, showing no signs of distress. The big bay front window is closed, with large white wooden shutters secured from the outside, another good sign. It appears the former residents may have left on vacation before the event started. With the .45 still held high, Jack grasps the front doorknob. To his surprise it opens. Military probably jimmied the lock open when they checked this neighborhood, Jack thinks. The door opens, squeaking slightly. Jack steps just inside the door sniffing the air. Something has rotted in the house. It doesn’t quite smell like zombie or human, and the number painted on the house was a 0. Food spoilage is the obvious culprit.
Jack closes the front door quietly and locks it. One standard lock, a deadbolt, and a chain, none of which make Jack feel secure. The inside of the house is dim. Light seeps through small openings in the shutters in the front room, and drawn blinds in the adjoining dining room and kitchen. From what Jack can tell the house is, or was, very well taken care of by its previous inhabitants and the military must have left it alone. Jack passes through the kitchen, turns a corner, and stops at what appears to be a pass-through nook of some sort. Very little ambient light makes its way to the nook. Jack places the duffle bag on the floor and rummages around for a small flashlight, remembering it’s in the front part of his backpack. He slides the backpack off, placing it on t he floor next to the duffle bag. He retrieves a small black flashlight and steps forward twisting the top to turn it on. Just as the light pops on his head strikes a small wind chime hanging from the ceiling. The small metal cylinders spring to life, echoing throughout the house. Jack quickly sets his .45 on a small counter, reaching up to silence the chimes, only making it worse.
“Why the fuck are there wind chimes hanging here?” Jack asks out loud.
“Dinner bell,” the voice says from the dark.
CHAPTER 6.
Market
Shasta View Square sits nearly lifeless. Two young boys stroll through the parking lot, past fallen zombies and survivors, although it is difficult to tell the difference. The front stoop of the store is littered with blown newspapers, food wrappers, spoiled food and one rather dead zombie. Its teeth are nearly as black as the bulbous tongue protruding from its mouth. It’s on its back directly in front of the entrance to the store.
“Do you think we’ll ever catch a break?” Roger asks.
“Nope. It’s dead, just step over it. I think the doors open both ways.” Brett
begins to move forward.
“Let me go first,” Roger grabs Brett’s shoulder, halting his forward movement.
“Whatever you say, Master Chief.”
Roger steps closer to the fallen dead man or woman. He can’t tell the sex but if he had to guess he would say it was once a short woman with broad shoulders; or as his father would have said, “That’s definitely a Lebanese carpet muncher.” The body lies flat on its back with its hands directly at its sides. The position seems a bit odd to Roger but he passes it off as random. He stops short of the zombie’s probable reach and removes the .22 rifle from his shoulder. He doesn’t want to waste a round, so he takes aim while stomping his feet. Nothing. He speaks, “Hey, lunch is right here.” Still nothing. He reaches out with his right foot, nudging the zombie in the side of the head. Nothing.
“It’s dead,” Roger says.
“Duh, you think!”
Instead of stepping over the body both boys walk around the feet, stepping closer to the front doors.
“Keep an eye on that thing,” Roger orders.
Brett rolls his eyes but does what is asked of him. Roger pushes the front door open. The smell of rotting food smacks him in the face like the hot wind of a summer day. His eyes water slightly as he lets the door close again.
“Whew, that’s bad,” Roger states as he waves his left hand in front of his face. “We’ll have to make this fast.”
Dust of the Devil's Land Page 3
